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Chapter 89 – When the Storm Begins
🕑 Added 2025-08-15 16:04:32 +0000 UTCInformation spreads fast online.
Sometimes, all it takes is less than three days for a public opinion storm to break out.
Just as Yuusuke Niijima had predicted during their conversation at the café, on September 2nd—barely a week after signing the contract.
—Aoki Kei began to notice a growing number of hostile discussions online, targeting not only him but also the other members of Kessoku Band.
After the announcement that the band would perform the theme song Fireworks for the film Fireworks, and their official collaboration with the production team was confirmed, the movie’s creators quickly tweeted:
“Excited to be working with Suki-sensei and Kessoku Band!”
That tweet lit the spark. And within days, the internet was ablaze with skepticism.
Aoki had already been warned by Niijima that the band might face a smear campaign, so he wasn’t expecting a peaceful few days.
But even then, he hadn’t imagined that the backlash would come so swiftly—or so fiercely.
While Aoki wasn’t too bothered by some of the criticism targeting him directly—questions about his originality.
Whether he could compose a piece that truly fit Fireworks, or whether he was just a so-called “genius” propped up by the industry.
—He knew those were baseless claims, unsupported by any real evidence. They didn’t concern him much.
What did trouble him, however, were the criticisms that could genuinely affect Kessoku Band’s public image:
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“Honestly, the band’s overall level isn’t very high. The last time they competed in that record label’s contest, they only placed because they got lucky. The runner-up actually had more consistent performances.”
“This kid probably deserves to be in a better band. The rest of Kessoku Band, aside from Suki-san, seem more like dead weight...”
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And then, there was this:
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“Sure, Suki-san is talented, but isn’t the lead vocal this time that newbie who sang Loser once? Let’s be real… having a rookie take center stage in a band Suki practically built from scratch? That’s just not going to work.”
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This whole “Does Aoki deserve a better band?” discussion wasn’t new.
It had first surfaced when Loser debuted on YouTube.
But back then, Aoki’s performance had silenced the noise, and afterward, no one in the band had brought it up again.
But now, the debate had flared up once more.
Aoki himself wasn’t shaken.
He had no intention of leaving Kessoku Band.
But what he couldn’t be sure of—what truly concerned him—was how the rest of the girls in the band might react to all this.
And more than anything, the harshest wave of criticism was now targeting one person specifically:
Kita Ikuyo—the band’s lead vocalist.
To Aoki, Ikuyo’s skills were solid.
She had natural talent, and her rapid progress proved it.
Her voice, in particular, was a perfect fit for Fireworks.
If you asked him whether she was the right person to sing the song, he would answer “yes” without hesitation.
But that wasn’t the point.
Before the song was officially performed—before the film’s soundtrack was finalized—Ikuyo had already struggled with doubts about whether she was truly cut out to be the lead.
And now? Now she’d see people online questioning her very place in the band—with arguments that, unfortunately, sounded rational on the surface.
If she came across those comments...
Even if she didn’t waver in her conviction, it would be impossible for her not to feel the weight of them.
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September 3rd.
The day after Aoki first noticed the online uproar, the skies over Tokyo turned gray.
It hadn’t rained in a while.
He figured this would be the last warm day before the cooler post-autumn weather rolled in.
That morning, he stayed at his apartment, mulling over how best to deal with the situation.
After lunch, at precisely 2 p.m., he boarded the train and arrived at STARRY.
The rest of the band was already there.
These girls weren’t living under rocks—they had smartphones.
The tension in the air was unmistakable.
The usual lively energy had been replaced by a strained silence.
Clearly, they’d seen the online chatter.
Aoki had given them a heads-up in advance, so they understood where the attacks were coming from.
But having never dealt with this kind of public scrutiny before, it was obvious that none of them had Aoki’s ability to brush off outside opinions.
The whole store felt heavy with unease.
He’d expected this, so he’d already prepared what he wanted to say.
In simple terms, he reminded them: ‘Don’t let others dictate your worth. Don’t give those trying to hurt you what they want.’
These were just growing pains—an unavoidable part of going pro.
Once Aoki finished speaking, there was a brief silence.
Then, with a sharp beat of her drumsticks and a resolute “Let’s prove them wrong,” Nijika forced herself—and the rest of the band into rehearsal mode.
But even so...
As the ensemble practice began, Aoki could feel it. The band’s energy was off.
Their rhythm, their spirit—it just wasn’t there today.
Unfortunately, there was little he could do to fix it with mere words.
As he’d said earlier, the road to success was never going to be smooth.
And this was just one of many hurdles they’d have to face.
Still, the important part was: none of them had given up.
They were still here. Still trying.
They pushed through, training with grim determination until around 5 p.m.
The final run-through ended with Nijika’s closing beat.
Exhaling deeply, Aoki gave a quiet, “Go home and rest,” then stepped out of the rehearsal room and left STARRY.
Since he had plans to tutor Ikuyo around 6, he didn’t bother heading all the way back to his apartment.
Instead, he grabbed dinner at a nearby ramen shop.
After finishing his meal, he didn’t return to STARRY right away.
He wandered the streets for a while, letting the wind clear his head.
When he finally made it back, the store was still closed.
Manager Seika had been out all afternoon and probably wouldn’t return until late.
Knowing that Aoki and Ikuyo would be rehearsing again tonight, she’d handed him the spare key ahead of time.
With Nijika already back at the apartment and STARRY officially closed, Aoki let himself in and flipped the sign to “Closed.”
Inside, the livehouse was completely empty.
Ikuyo hadn’t arrived yet, so rather than sit around doing nothing, Aoki slipped into the rehearsal room and began playing a few warm-up pieces on the electric piano.
And then—about twenty minutes later...
